


Mr. Congeniality

by Robin Hood (kjack89)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Miss Congeniality Fusion, Beauty Pageants, Crack Treated Seriously, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-08-23 05:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16612427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/Robin%20Hood
Summary: Barba shoved the envelope toward Carisi as if it physically pained him to touch it. “Rita likes to have her fun with me,” he said sourly. “It’s the same joke every year, as if it’ll somehow magically get funnier with each iteration.”Carisi flipped the envelope over, eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline as he read out loud, “‘The Mayor’s All-Borough Charity Benefit Mr. New York Pageant’?” He looked from the envelope to Barba. “Are you kidding?”Barba winced. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “Rita sits on the board and every year she thinks it’s just plainhilariousto invite me to audition as a contestant.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AHumanFemale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHumanFemale/gifts), [ships_to_sail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/gifts).



> For the wonderful Lyssa and Chelsea, for always supporting me and putting up with all my bitching and moaning for the past several months during campaign season. Love you both to the moon and back!
> 
> Based loosely on the film Miss Congeniality. Outline predicts 3 chapters...we shall see. To be updated when I can. I've learned not to give predictions at this point lol
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Carisi knocked lightly on Barba’s open office door. Normally he wouldn’t bother, especially when the door was open, and Barba’s expected eyeroll and huff about manners in response was practically rote at this point, but he could see that Barba was on the phone and despite what Barba may mutter under his breath in his darker moods, Carisi did have some manners.

Not many. But some.

Barba glanced up when he knocked and gestured vaguely in what Carisi took as an invitation to come in, and he wandered into the office, glancing at the scattered files across Barba’s desk. “Yes, sir, I understand that,” Barba started, sounding unusually irritated, even for him, and Carisi winced. “I just think—”

He broke off as whoever he was on the phone with started speaking, and Carisi cast about for some distraction on Barba’s desk, since this didn’t sound like a conversation he should be eavesdropping on. He saw the corner of what looked like a massive envelope made of creamy parchment sticking out from under a pile of file folders, Carisi reached for it, curiosity piqued, though he froze when Barba lurched forward, glaring at him as he shoved the envelope back under the files.

Well now Carisi _had_ to see what it was.

“Yes, sir,” Barba said stiffly. “I’ll take that under advisement.” He hung up, still glaring at Carisi. “Just coming into my office unannounced isn’t enough for you?” he sniped. “Now you have to try and look through my private mail.”

“Firstly, I knocked,” Carisi said. “Secondly, what was that?”

“That was the mayor,” Barba said with a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “He wanted to weigh in on the Gutierrez Grand Jury.”

“Ah.”

Carisi had learned his lesson the hard way about weighing in on one of Barba’s Grand Juries, especially when it centered on an officer-involved shooting.

“But that’s not what I meant.” He nodded toward the stack of files hiding the envelope he’d seen. “I meant, what’s _that_?”

Unless Carisi imagined it, a slight flush rose in Barba’s cheeks. “Nothing,” he muttered dismissively.

Carisi raised an eyebrow. “Sure didn’t look like nothing.”

Barba sighed again. “You’re not going to drop this, are you?” he asked, seemingly rhetorically, already reaching for the envelope, which was even more absurd when it was fully revealed. He shoved it toward Carisi as if it physically pained him to touch it. “Rita likes to have her fun with me,” he said sourly. “It’s the same joke every year, as if it’ll somehow magically get funnier with each iteration.”

Carisi flipped the envelope over, eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline as he read out loud, “‘The Mayor’s All-Borough Charity Benefit Mr. New York Pageant’?” He looked from the envelope to Barba. “Are you kidding?”

Barba winced. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “Rita sits on the board and every year she thinks it’s just plain _hilarious_ to invite me to audition as a contestant.”

“Aren’t city employees ethically forbidden from participating in events like this?” Carisi asked, trying with all his might to hold back his laughter at the very thought of Barba participating in a beauty pageant.

Barba glared at him. “Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be, unlike you, I’m not a city employee,” he huffed, shuffling some papers around on his desk. “I work for New York County. And Rita knows this. And exploits it. Every chance she gets.”

He snatched the envelope back from Carisi, whose shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. “Did you come here for anything other than to mock me, Detective?” Barba asked frostily, and Carisi couldn’t quite contain a snort.

“Sorry,” he said, trying to cover his laughter with a cough and failing miserably. “I, uh, I came to drop off—”

He gestured vaguely at the file folder, wheezing slightly as he did, and Barba’s glare deepened. “Then unless you have anything else case-related,” he started threateningly, and when Carisi couldn’t find it in himself to speak, Barba glowered at him. “I thought as much. You can see yourself out, Detective.”

Carisi nodded mutely and turned to head to the door, pausing and forcing himself to recover the power of speech. “For what it’s worth,” he started casually, and Barba glanced warily up at him. “If you were in a beauty pageant, you’d have my vote.”

His words might have been more convincing had they not been punctuated by a veritable cackle of laughter at the end, and Barba’s glare could’ve melted paint, the tips of his ears burning red. “Get out,” he growled, and this time, Carisi really did leave.

He had the courtesy to wait until he was halfway down the hallway to finally give in to his laughter.

* * *

 

Needless to say, Carisi was in an infinitely better mood when he returned to the precinct, content to carry around the thought of Barba in a beauty pageant for the rest of the day.

Hell, for the rest of his life.

But his good mood seemed short-lived as he joined Amanda, who was pinning typed letters up on the evidence board. “We got a new case?” he asked.

“Yeah, and it’s a doozy,” Amanda said with a grin. “Someone’s threatening to blow up a beauty pageant. Seems like a victimless crime to me.”

Carisi ignored that. “How is that an SVU case?” he asked instead, his brow furrowed.

“It’s not,” Olivia said as she joined them, casefile in hand. “Joint-terrorism is technically running the op but the letters specifically state that the perp wants to blow up the ‘queers and fags’ at the event, which—”

“Makes it a hate crime,” Carisi finished with a sigh. “Which is where we come in.”

“Couldn’t they just blow up fashion week instead?” Fin asked as he joined them, taking a sip from his cup of coffee. “That wouldn’t be a hate crime, that’d be a service to humanity.”

Carisi stared from Fin to Amanda. “How about we don’t blow anyone up? Last I checked, models and beauty pageant contestants still deserve to, y’know, live.”

Olivia cleared her throat. “Anyway,” she said, “the event being targeted is a charity event put on by the mayor’s office.” Carisi had a sudden feeling of realization settle like ice in his stomach. “Joint-terrorism suspects that the person behind the threats works either for the mayor’s office or for the event itself, but getting to interview the people involved without causing a panic is proving to be difficult.” She pursed her lips. “Made more so by the fact that the mayor’s office isn’t exactly cooperating fully with the investigation.”

Carisi worried his lower lip for a moment before sighing heavily. “I may know someone who can help us,” he said reluctantly. “Someone who’s been invited to participate in the pageant and could talk to staff and other participants without raising suspicion.”

“No wonder you were so sensitive about blowing it up,” Rollins said with a smirk. “You dating a beauty queen, Carisi?”

“Beauty king, I think you mean,” Fin said with an identical smirk.

Olivia ignored both of them. “That’s great, Carisi,” she said, though her enthusiasm was tempered somewhat. “Why are you saying it like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because he’s actually, literally going to murder me,” Carisi sighed, already pulling out his cellphone and dialing Barba’s number from memory. “But maybe it’d be better if you spoke to him first.”

He handed his phone to Olivia, who looked baffled even as she held it up to her ear, though recognition and understanding flashed across her face as soon as Barba picked up. “Actually, Rafa, it’s me,” she said. “Just using Carisi’s cellphone.”

“Rafa?” Rollins repeated, as Olivia walked away, talking on the phone in an undertone. “You mean—”

“Barba,” Fin said, his grin widening. “Of course. Now it all makes sense.” He turned his smirk on Carisi. “He really is going to kill you, you know.”

“I know,” Carisi sighed, slumping down at his desk.”Let’s just hope we find the bomber and quick.”

Both Rollins and Fin looked like there was more they wanted to say to that — more jokes they wanted to make at Carisi’s expense, more like — but Olivia appeared, looking grim. “He’s in,” she said, handing Carisi’s phone back to him. “He’s not thrilled, needless to say, but he’s agreed to help.”

Carisi looked up at her hopefully. “Does that mean he’s not going to kill me?”

“Rollins, liaise with Joint-terrorism, loop them in to the plan,” Olivia said, conspicuously avoiding answering Carisi’s question, at least directly. “Fin, reach out to the pageant coordinators. Figure out what sort of costumes we’re going to need and then head to evidence and see what you can pull from there. Carisi…” She trailed off. “You’re going to serve as Barba’s handler.”

“His what?”

“His handler,” Olivia repeated. “You’ll be monitoring him and serving as NYPD support for every stage of the operation. You’ll keep him posted on developments and assist him however needed without breaking his cover.”

“Why me?” Carisi asked with something like horror.

Olivia cleared her throat. “He requested you,” she said delicately.

“Oh, God,” Carisi groaned. “He really is going to kill me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now likely to be either 4 or 5 chapters because this chapter kind of took on a life of its own.
> 
> I'm sure no one is either surprised or, hopefully anyway, disappointed by that.

“Are you going to ignore me the entire time?”

Barba didn’t even bother looking up from his cellphone and still Carisi could feel the force of his glare. “Believe me, you don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

Carisi sighed. “For the eighteenth time, I’m sorry—“

“Ms. Calhoun will see you now,” Rita’s overly cheerful assistant interrupted, and only then did Barba glance up, his scowl deepening.

“Great,” he muttered, shoving his phone in his pocket as he stood to follow her into Rita’s office.

Carisi hurried to follow suit, his own irritation at Barba taking this entire situation out on him coming to a boiling point. “You do know that I didn’t do this just to torture you, right?” he asked once Rita’s assistant had closed the door behind them. “I mean, I think you’re forgetting that there’s a bomb threat and I was just doing my job—”

“So were the Nazis.”

Carisi rolled his eyes so hard he was half-convinced he pulled a muscle. “Really? You’re comparing this to the Nazis? Don’t you think you’re being a little overdramatic?”

“Det. Carisi,” Rita Calhoun interrupted smoothly as she let herself into her office, “you should already know that overdramatic is Rafael’s specialty.” She crossed to Rafael and kissed him on the cheek before adding, “If I had known that a bomb threat would be enough to get you to agree to this—”

“Charming as always,” Barba said, though Carisi noted that he didn’t seem nearly as sour with Rita as he was with him. “Can we just get this over with?”

Rita  _ tsk _ -ed, sitting down at her desk. “Get this over with?” she repeated, with mock-sympathy. “Why, Rafael, I’m beginning to think you don’t actually want to participate in the pageant.”

Barba gritted his teeth. “That’s because I don’t.”

Rita leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand as she gave Rafael a small, measured smirk. “Now, Rafi—”

“Only my mother gets to call me Rafi,” Barba snapped.

“Rafi,” Rita continued, ignoring him, “I’ve had to pull a lot of strings to get you into this, and all so that you can help the police and stop someone from blowing up a beauty pageant. Regardless of how you feel about participating, surely you can at least be a little bit grateful that I’ve done this much for you.”

Barba’s eyes narrowed. “And the fact that you get to lord this over me for the foreseeable future plays no role in your magnanimity, I suppose.”

Rita raised an eyebrow. “Well, I do allow myself a few perks.”

Carisi cleared his throat, holding up a hand to forestall any further sniping from Barba. “Fascinating though this is,” he said, giving Barba a look, “we’re here to talk about the pageant and how best to get Barba in. My understanding is that he’ll be, uh…” He glanced at Barba, who was scowling determinedly at the ground. “He’ll be Mr. Upper East Side. He just has to show up to rehearsals and put up a good enough show that the other contestants and staff open up to him, and then he can drop out of the pageant, no harm, no foul.”

“Not quite.”

Both Barba and Carisi looked sharply at Rita. “What do you mean, not quite?” Barba asked.

“From what I understand, the situation has changed,” Rita told them. “And it’s a bit more complicated than initially anticipated. When I spoke to Lt. Benson, she said—”

“Liv called you?” Barba demanded, sounding affronted, at the same time Carisi asked, “When did you speak to the Lieu?”

Rita looked more amused than she had any right to be. “Just before you boys got here,” she told Carisi, before glancing at Barba. “And Olivia and I are friendly. We speak frequently.”

Barba’s expression turned downright murderous at that and Rita seemed to take that as some sort of victory, her smirk widening as she turned back to Carisi. “Apparently, there’s been a new threat.”

Carisi frowned and fumbled for his phone, pulling it out and opening the email that Olivia had sent him a few minutes ago. “Shit,” he muttered, scrolling through the most recent letter.

“What is it?” Barba asked sharply.

“It appears your comic book villain perp has escalated his threats from vague to specific,” Rita said, her amusement fading somewhat. “In the most recent threat, he’s specifically targeting the closing ceremony. Meaning we may need you to make it all the way to the top 5.”

“Top 5?” Barba repeated blankly. “You want me to not only represent the Upper East Side but also beat every other Manhattan neighborhood representative, and for people to somehow believe this?”

“Of course not,” Rita said. “Because you won’t be Mr. Upper East Side.”

Barba stared at her. “Rita, I live on the Upper East Side,” he said. “And the rules—”

Rita arched an eyebrow. “I never expected to hear you of all people trying to lecture me about the rules,” she said coolly. “I’m well aware of the residency requirements. But I’m also aware of the fact that you still own your grandmother’s apartment in the South Bronx.”

“You mean—”

“Congratulations, you’re the new Mr. South Bronx.”

Barba opened his mouth and immediately closed it again, and Carisi cleared his throat. “Uh, congrats,” he said. “But, uh, what exactly does that mean for op purposes?”

Rita didn’t look at Carisi, eyeing Barba with an unreadable expression. “Each of the boroughs holds its own preliminary pageant to determine who will be crowned Mr. Queens or Mr. Brooklyn. It’s mostly an excuse for the mayor to do a tour of the boroughs with a nice press pop in each. The Manhattan preliminary is held the same night as the final round, because of course the major donors don’t particularly care about the other boroughs—”

“Typical,” Carisi muttered, and Barba managed a small half-smile at that.

“—which means that Rafael will need to be there not only on the night of the finals but will also have to participate in the preliminary round in The Bronx next week.”

Barba looked up, startled. “What?”

Rita shrugged, for the first time looking slightly uncomfortable. “I can pull some strings behind the scenes with the judges to make sure you get crowned Mr. Bronx, but you have to do the work of showing up and competing. Convincingly, I would add.”

“Let me get this straight—” Barba started, his expression darkening.

“There really is a first time for everything,” Rita said.

Barba’s glare deepened. “I now not only have to make a fool of myself once but twice, in addition to potentially risking my own personal safety just to, again, make a fool of myself?”

Carisi couldn’t quite help himself: he snorted a laugh, and Barba whipped his head around to glare at him so quickly that he reminded Carisi of a particularly bad-tempered snake. “Problem, Detective?”

“You’re risked your personal safety before for far less noble causes,” Carisi pointed out, a little dryly. “Or need I remind you of Felipe Heredio, giving him your home address and literally inviting him to come attack you there?”

Barba flushed, just slightly. “That was different.”

Carisi gave him a look and Rita cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, I chose not to become a divorce attorney for a reason. Fascinating though this is—”

“No, what’s fascinating is how glib everyone seems about the fact that as the only gay competitor in this asinine pageant, I’m more of a target than the other contestants,” Barba said, his voice tight.

“You’re not the only gay one,” Rita said, rolling her eyes.

Barba raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he asked dryly. “Who else? Mr. Greenwich Village?”

“Yes,” Rita said evenly. “And Mr. Staten Island is gay.”

Carisi’s head snapped up. “What?” he asked hoarsely.

Rita smirked. “Relax, sweetheart, I didn’t mean you.” She looked at him appraisingly. “Though thank you for confirming what I’ve long suspected.”

“Leave the detective alone, Rita,” Barba said without much heat, though something in his tone had Rita glancing back at him with a calculating look.

“Of course,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “I forgot how possessive you get of your toys.”

“And you also forget that for as many years as you’ve spent getting your ass handed to you in court, you still seem determined to underestimate and undervalue how skilled SVU detectives are,” Barba said, all traces of pleasantry missing entirely from his tone, and he stood, his expression unreadable. “We’re done here.”

Rita’s expression didn’t so much as flicker, and Carisi glanced between them, unsure if they were really leaving or not. “Fine,” Rita said calmly. “Just don’t forget — you need a talent for the talent portion. And your talent for shouting at people who are trying to help you isn’t going to score any points with the judges.”

Barba didn’t bother replying, just sweeping out of Rita’s office without a second glance. Carisi looked at Rita, opened his mouth to say something, and decided better of it, instead standing to follow Barba. “Det. Carisi.” Carisi paused, glancing back at her. “Look after him, would you?”

Carisi sighed. “I’m trying,” he said honestly. “But, uh, he blames me for getting him mixed up in this. I think it’s kinda his worst nightmare.”

Rita managed a small smile. “Well,” she said, “hopefully now he’ll blame me instead.”

Carisi smiled as well, and ducked his head before following Barba out of the office.

Barba didn’t look up from his cellphone when Carisi joined him at the elevator, just huffing, “Finally”, and jabbing the down button with more force than was remotely necessary.

Carisi glanced sideways at him. “You know, she’s just trying to help.”

“I thought you thought all defense attorneys were the devil,” Barba said mildly.

Carisi considered that for a moment before shrugging. “Not  _ all _ of them.”

Barba couldn’t quite hide his smile at that, and even glanced up from his phone. “Well I’ll be sure to tell Rita that if I ever speak to her again.”

“You know what I don’t understand?” Carisi asked, and before Barba could speak, he added, “And yeah, I realize the vast total of what I don’t know could fill the Empire State Building twice—”

“I was going to say Rockefeller Plaza, but fair enough.”

“What I don’t understand is that you put on a costume and perform in front of an audience almost everyday of your life,” Carisi said evenly. “And I don’t get how this is any different.”

Barba’s smile disappeared. “Ignoring how I don’t exactly take comfort in the fact that you characterize what I do for a living as ‘putting on a costume and performing in front of an audience’, what’s different is that I’ve spent the last twenty years perfecting my performance. What’s different is that my audience doesn’t typically determine the future of my career trajectory. And what’s different—” He bit the word off, pushing the down button again as if it might make the elevator appear faster. “What’s different is that my act in the courtroom is meant to hide the fact that I was a poor kid from the South Bronx, not flaunt it for Manhattan’s elite.”

Carisi shook his head slowly, completely at a loss for anything to say to that. “Well at least there’s one good thing that’ll come of this,” he said bracingly, as the elevator door dinged.

“You mean saving said Manhattan elite from a psychopathic bomber who wants to blow them all up?” Barba asked, stepping onto the elevator.

“Ok, well, besides that,” Carisi said, following him.

Barba glanced up at him. “Then what good will come of it, Detective?”

Carisi half-smiled. “It means I get to see you in a tux,” he said. “Twice.”

“And?”

Carisi shrugged and pushed the button for the lobby. “And for me, that’s worth it.”

Barba looked taken aback for a moment, before a slow smile crept across his face. “Well,” he said. “We’ll see about that.” He raised an eyebrow at him. “Just don’t think that you’re forgiven yet.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Carisi said solemnly, and Barba’s smile widened, just slightly.

Carisi decided to take it for the small victory that it was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's gonna be 5 chapters. Are we surprised? No. Not even remotely.

“How long is this gonna take?” Fin asked with a sigh.

Carisi just shrugged, scrolling through an email Rollins had just sent that contained new threat letters unearthed by Joint-Terrorism’s investigation. “As long as it takes, I guess.”

Fin rolled his eyes and sighed again, glancing at Carisi. “How are you not bored?”

Carisi snorted and shook his head. “I grew up with four sisters. This is hardly my first time waiting for someone to finish trying on clothes.” He glanced up at Fin. “And it’s only been, what, ten minutes?”

“Twelve,” Barba said, emerging from the storage closet at the property clerk’s office that they were using as a makeshift dressing room. “And what can I say, you can’t rush perfection.”

Though Carisi opened his mouth to say something, no words seemed to come out, and Fin let out a low chuckle before telling him in an undertone, “Close your mouth before something flies in there.” Carisi’s jaw snapped shut and Fin chuckled again before turning to where Barba was examining his reflection in the full-length mirror they’d dug out of evidence. “What is that, Gucci?”

Barba made a face at the mirror. “Please,” he scoffed. “This is Zegna Couture. And I don’t even  _ want _ to know how it ended up in evidence.” He paused, his expression turning horrified. “Please don’t tell me it’s a counterfeit.”

Carisi checked the evidence tag on the garment bag. “You’re in luck, it’s the genuine article,” he said. “And, uh, you definitely don’t wanna know how it got in evidence.”

“At least it looks like they got the bloodstains out,” Fin remarked, and when Barba’s eyes widened comically, he snickered. “Kidding, kidding.”

“Not funny,” Barba snapped, adjusting his bowtie and pocket square before turning back to Fin and Carisi. “So. What do we think? Is this a Mr. Bronx-worthy tux?”

Carisi once again couldn’t quite seem to say anything, and Barba grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He turned back to the dressing room. “Now to find an outfit to wear for the talent portion of the evening.”

Fin groaned. “You can’t just wear the same damn tux?”

It was Carisi’s turn to chuckle lightly. “Are you kidding me? He has to wear five different tuxes. Or at least, four tuxes — opening ceremony, eveningwear, Q&A and closing ceremony — and whatever the hell he needs to wear for his talent portion.”

“Why?” Fin demanded, baffled. “Who the hell cares if he wears the same tux?!”

Carisi laughed again. “Y’know, if ever I doubted you were straight…”

“Whatever,” Fin huffed, pulling out his cellphone. “I’m calling Liv. I don’t need to be here for this shit.”

Carisi just laughed and knocked lightly on the storage room door. “You doing ok in there?”

“Fine,” Barba told him, before asking, a little despairingly, “I don’t actually need four tuxes, do I?”

“That depends.”

“On what?” Barba asked warily.

“On if you need a tux for your talent portion or not.”

Barba sighed so loudly that Carisi could hear it through the closed door. “Have I mentioned recently that I hate you?”

Carisi considered it. “Not in the last hour.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah,” Carisi said, sitting back down and scrolling through his phone again. “I know.”

* * *

 

“I hate you.”

“You really need to stop telling me that,” Carisi said, significantly less amused than that day in evidence storage as they made their way through the portion of the ballroom that had been curtained off as a staging area. “Especially since I’m technically on the job now and the last thing I need to be thinking about is you hating me.”

Barba rolled his eyes, adjusting his grip on the garment bags he was lugging into the venue. “We’re in the Bronx, which I’m fairly certain is out of your jurisdiction.”

Carisi gave him a look. “You’re the one whose jurisdiction is limited to Manhattan, not me.”

“And you’re not the one who’s about to have to go up onstage and make an ass of yourself,” Barba snapped.

Carisi sighed and reached up to adjust the glasses he was wearing, conscious of the camera hidden in the thick black frames. “And don’t you think it’s time you stopped blaming me for that?”

Barba just glowered at him, his eyes flickering up to watch Carisi adjust the glasses. “I hate those glasses,” he said instead of what he was probably planning on saying.

“Is now really the time to mock my appearance, Counselor?” Carisi asked sourly, carefully scanning the room.

Something in Barba’s expression softened. “It’s not your appearance I’m mocking,” he said. “You look good in glasses. It’s just that  _ those _ glasses are hideous.”

Carisi blinked. “You think about me in glasses a lot, Counselor?”

He didn’t even realize how the question sounded until Barba’s scowl was back in place. “That’s not what I said,” he snapped. “Now help me figure out where the hell I check in—”

Before either of them could move, a flustered-looking woman holding a clipboard made her way over to them. “Is one of you a participant in this evening’s pageant?” she asked in clipped tones.

“Him,” Carisi said, jerking a thumb at Barba.

“Rafael Barba,” Barba said before adding reluctantly, “Mr. South Bronx.” 

The woman nodded, checking something off on her clipboard. “Welcome, Mr. Barba. You can use any of the dressing booths along the wall there—” She gestured with her pen towards a row of curtained stalls along the back wall. “—and one of the other staff members will let you know when we’re about ten minutes before show. As I’m sure you already know, the order for the evening will be opening ceremony, the question and answer segment, eveningwear, talent, and then of course the closing and crowning of Mr. Bronx.” 

“Goodie,” Barba grumbled.

The woman turned to Carisi. “And you are?” she asked, somewhat snidely.

Carisi blinked, his mind completely blanking. They hadn’t discussed a cover, figuring that there’d be enough people milling about backstage that no one would even notice. Barba glanced at him, the corners of his mouth twitching toward a smile, and Carisi could practically hear the coming snide comments about how well Carisi held up under pressure. “He’s my partner,” Barba told her.

The woman didn’t seem at all surprised, and Carisi couldn’t decide how he should feel about that. “Family members need to vacate backstage before the show begins,” she told him, handing him a flimsy plastic badge with VISITOR printed on it in bold red letters before heading to check the next participant in.

Carisi raised an eyebrow at Barba. “Partner?” he asked.

“I didn’t see you coming up with a better cover,” Barba replied coolly, quirking an eyebrow at him, and Carisi felt himself flush, just slightly.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “I’ve had worse covers.” He paused. “Of course, I can’t think of any at the moment…”

Barba rolled his eyes. “Ah, yes, because pretending to be gay for me is  _ such _ a hardship.”

“You know damn well only half of that is pretending,” Carisi said, refusing to rise to the bait. “Now are you gonna get changed?”

Barba sighed. “I guess,” he started reluctantly, but before he could take more than a step in the direction of the changing rooms, they were intercepted by two ridiculously good-looking men. 

“Just wanted to introduce ourselves,” the first one, a tall black man, said smoothly, holding out his hand for Carisi to shake. “Mr. Queens, formerly Mr. Jamaica.”

“Uh, Sonny Carisi,” Carisi replied. “But I’m not, uh—”

“You’re not from the Bronx,” the second man said, running a hand through his wavy dark blond hair, his Staten Island accent as thick as Carisi’s, and he turned to Barba, who was scowling. “Which must make you the contestant this evening.”

“Rafael Barba,” Barba said stiffly.

The man grinned and reached out to take the garment bags out of Barba’s hands. “Lemme take those for you, they look heavy. James Callahan, Jr. Call me Jimmy, everyone does. Or, uh, Mr. Staten Island, I guess, if you wanna go for formalities.”

He gave Barba what he clearly thought was his most charming grin, and something shifted slightly in Barba’s expression. “Of course,” he said smoothly, with just the slightest of smirks as he looked Jimmy — no, James, Carisi thought sourly. He didn’t know the man well enough to honor his nickname. “One of the other gay ones, if my sources are correct.”

“I mean, I don’t normally lead with it, but your sources are correct,” James said.

“They usually are,” Barba assured him, his smirk widening.

“Hey Carisi.”

Carisi jumped, having completely forgotten his earpiece and the fact that Fin was out in the surveillance van witnessing all of this. “I know watching Barba flirt with the Irish version of you is painful, but you want to actually do some investigating while you’re in there?”

Carisi’s scowl deepened and he turned to Barba, stepping between him and James and leaning in to tell him in an undertone, “I’ll be right back, provided you’re ok here.”

“I’ll be fine,” Barba told him.

“Yeah, I bet you will,” Carisi muttered to himself as he walked away.

“Head in the game, Carisi,” Fin chided through the earpiece. “I know Mr. Staten Island is younger than you, and hotter than you—”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” Carisi growled under his breath.

Fin’s laughter was the only answer.

Irritated, Carisi pulled the earpiece out of his ear, ignoring Fin’s muffled protests, and shoved it in his pocket, plastering a smile on his face as he approached a nearby staffer at the coffee pot set up on a table shoved in the back corner. “This is quite a scene, huh?” he said conversationally, pouring himself a cup off coffee.

The staffer laughed dryly. “You’re telling me,” she said, taking a sip of her own coffee. “I’ve still got the Brooklyn competition and, of course, Manhattan and then the finals.”

“You work for the mayor’s office, then?” Carisi asked, dumping three sugar packets into his coffee.

“I work for the mayor’s political committee,” she corrected. “When the mayor established this, what, six years ago now? He didn’t want it to use any taxpayer funds, so the entire thing is staffed out of his political staff.”

Well that certainly changed the list of potential perpetrators. “Interesting,” he said, taking a sip of coffee and wincing at the taste, reaching for the creamer. “So does that mean that the board of directors are also politically chosen?”

The staffer shrugged. “That I wouldn’t know,” she said. “The only member of the board of directors of this event I’ve ever even met is the mayor’s wife. He appointed her as chairwoman, but I don’t know why he bothered. He does everything anyway.”

“Really?” Carisi said, genuinely surprised. “I wouldn’t think that he’d have time, given, y’know, how busy he is being mayor and all. Doesn’t he have better things to do than organize a beauty pageant?”

“Of course, he’s a very busy man,” she snapped, clearly taking offense to the question. “But the mayor thinks that this event helps keep him connected to the boroughs. He loves meeting all of the contestants and—”

Out of the corner of his eye, Carisi watched James laugh and place a hand on Barba’s arm, and he interrupted the staffer mid-sentence. “Great, well, hope things go smoothly tonight,” he said, not even waiting for her reply before stalking back towards Barba.

James dropped his hand from Barba’s arm, his smile turning somewhat flinty as Carisi took his place next to Barba. “Rafael was just telling me all about you,” he said, saccharine sweet. “You’re very lucky to have him.” He winked at Barba and added, “And we’re very lucky to have such a daddy competing. Hopefully I’ll see you in the winner’s circle, Rafael.”

Carisi watched with narrowed eyes as James walked over to rejoin Mr. Queens. “Rafael?” he repeated.

“That is my name,” Barba said mildly.

“Whatever,” Carisi huffed before looking back at Barba. “You ready to go get changed?” he asked gruffly. “Don’t forget what Rita said — you gotta make this believable.”

“Don’t worry, Detective,” Barba said in a low voice. “You’re not the only one who knows how to make this believable.”

He headed in the direction of the changing rooms before Carisi could ask what in the hell he meant by that.


	4. Chapter 4

“Maybe there’s a God above, but all I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you…”

Carisi sighed slightly, his chin propped on his hand as he watched the YouTube video of Barba performing ‘Hallelujah’ at the Mr. Bronx competition for the hundredth time.

Ok, fine, for the hundredth time that day.

It wasn’t his fault that it was a damn good song. It was equally not his fault that Barba had performed the song like he was born to be onstage, commanding the audience with as much grace and poise as he normally did in the courtroom, his singing voice as captivating to Carisi at least as him giving a stellar closing argument.

The fact that Barba also looked like a Rat Pack throwback while singing was just, you know, icing on the cake.

Or something.

The song faded out to the thunderous applause from the assembled audience and Carisi was pretty sure he could even hear the wolf whistle he’d given before the local news recording cut to black, and, seeing as how he was alone in the precinct at this time of night and there was no one to judge him for it, he didn’t even hesitate before clicking ‘replay’.

Just as the song started, the genuine article strolled into the precinct and Carisi let out a slightly panicked squeak, quickly closing out of the video. “Counselor,” he said, perhaps a touch too loudly and too quickly, scrambling to his feet in a not at all undignified fashion, and Barba arched an eyebrow at him. “What, uh, what can I do for you?”

“Holding down the fort tonight?” Barba asked in lieu of answering, making his way over to Carisi’s desk.

“Yeah, y’know, new guy always gets the best assignments,” Carisi said with a chuckle.

Barba’s expression softened, just slightly. “It’s only been, what, four years now? I doubt you’re still the new guy.”

Carisi just shrugged. “Maybe not, but I am the only one without kids or grandkids to get home to, so…” He shrugged again and shoved his hands in his pockets. “So what can I help you with?”

“I doubt you can do much to help me with this, save for killing me and putting me out of my misery,” Barba muttered, pulling an envelope out of his pocket and handing it to Carisi, who looked at it with interest. “Apparently, there’s mandatory pre-Mr. New York prep the evening before the show, so the mayor’s office is generously putting the contestants up in a hotel the night before the competition.”

“Ok…” Carisi said slowly, trying to figure out why Barba was informing him of this. “So?”

Barba gave him a slightly pitying look. “So it seems like it might be an excellent opportunity to talk to some of the contestants and staff, don’t you think? Especially since Joint-Terrorism hasn’t made any actual progress with the most recent threat letters.”

“Actually, they have,” Carisi told him, grabbing the file off his desk and handing it to Barba. “They found DNA on the most recent letter’s envelope. The person who licked it was female.”

“DNA not on file, I assume?” Barba asked.

Carisi sighed. “Unfortunately, no,” he admitted.

Barba scowled slightly. “Then congratulations, Detective, they’ve narrowed it to 51% of the population. I wouldn’t exactly call that progress, which makes my plan all the more viable.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Carisi asked tiredly. “You want me to come to your hotel room?” He realized instantly how that sounded and blushed. “I mean, uh, you want me to, uh—”

“I was thinking a stakeout,” Barba said, with a somewhat sharper than usual grin. “You know, wire me up, send me into the belly of the beast.” He paused, giving Carisi a rather slow and deliberate once-over. “But I supposed if you really wanted to join in on the fun—”

“Ha, ha,” Carisi said sarcastically. “No, I’m more than happy to let you take the lead on this one. A stakeout’s a good idea, though. I’ll talk to Fin, have him run it by Joint-Terrorism and get it set up.”

“Excellent,” Barba said, his tone turning brisk. “I’ll leave you to it, Detective.” He turned as if to leave but then paused. “Oh, and by the way?”

“Yeah?” Carisi said, aiming for casual and very likely missing by a mile.

“Thank you.”

Carisi blinked. “For...what?”

Barba shrugged. “For not making fun of me, I suppose,” he said, his own attempt at casual also falling short, at least by Carisi’s estimation. “For not pointing out that I was the oldest one by over a decade, that my singing voice has seen better days, and—”

“You won Mr. Bronx,” Carisi told him, and Barba scowled again.

“I’m well aware of that, Detective. The contest was rigged in my favor—”

Carisi shook his head. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, you  _ won _ . Even if it hadn’t’ve been rigged, you were best by far, and I’m definitely not the only one who thinks so.” Barba gave him a look and Carisi decided to throw caution to the wind. “Look,” he said, a little roughly, grabbing his laptop and reopening the YouTube video of Barba singing. “Look how many views this has.”

Barba’s brow furrowed as he looked at the video. “Interesting,” he said mildly, and Carisi snorted.

“That all you gonna say?”

Barba shrugged. “I also sound a little pitchy,” he offered, and Carisi rolled his eyes, setting his computer down.

“Ok, whatever you say,” he scoffed. “But just know that I’m not buying it. You looked good, you sounded good, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. So maybe cut yourself a little slack.”

For a moment, it looked like Barba might smile at him, but instead, he cocked his head slightly. “So do you want me to take my gratitude back?”

Carisi rolled his eyes again. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he said, exasperated.

Barba’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Again he turned to leave, and this time he made it almost all the way out of the precinct before he again paused, looking back at Carisi. “Just out of personal curiosity,” he started, and Carisi glanced over at him.

“What?”

“How many of those views are from you?”

Carisi gaped at him, and Barba smirked. “That’s what I thought,” he said, a little smugly. “See you tomorrow, Detective.”

It took probably close to a minute for Carisi to recover, and by then, Barba was long gone. Carisi shook his head before returning to his seat, hovering his mouse over the red X of the YouTube video that was still playing on his laptop.

He replayed the video instead.

After all, once more couldn’t hurt.

* * *

 

“Don’t be nervous,” Carisi told Barba.

The directive was frankly aimed more at himself, because he was the one taping a microphone wire to Barba’s bare chest and, well, he’d had dreams about touching Barba’s bare chest for years now, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to tell Barba as well.

“It takes a bit more than this to make me nervous, Detective,” Barba said in a low voice, and Carisi felt himself blush. 

“I meant about the operation,” he mumbled.

Barba smirked. “So did I.”

Carisi cleared his throat and took a step back, conspicuously not looking at Barba. “Right, well, you know what you’re doing,” he said, unusually gruff. “Did I tell you that the DNA was female? So that probably means we’re looking for a woman.”

“You told me,” Barba said, slipping the earpiece into his ear before moving to button up his shirt.

“And, uh, Fin and I’ll be outside the whole time, so you don’t have to worry about anything,” Carisi continued, well aware that he was stalling. And verging on rambling. And neither was a particularly good look on him. “You just concentrate on being the best Mr. Bronx you can be, alright? And by the way, you’re doing a great job. I thought the tuxes looked — well, y’know. I totally bought it, is all.”

“I know,” Barba said, something in his tone making Carisi glance back at him, and when he did, he saw that Barba was fully clothed again, and smirking. “You think I’m gorgeous.”

He sounded so unbearably smug and self-satisfied that Carisi denied it on instinct alone. “What? I don’t think you’re gorgeous.”

Barba’s smile widened. “You do,” he said. “You think I’m gorgeous. You want to kiss me, you want to hug me—”

Carisi knew he was blushing, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself, even as he grabbed his coat to leave. “I’d rather kiss Fin,” he muttered mutinously, mostly to try to hide exactly what was running through his head.

Which was mostly the fact that he did want to kiss Barba. Had wanted to kiss him for years.

That a not-so-small part of him wished that Barba wasn’t just mocking him. 

Barba’s smirk was more of a grin than anything now, as he continued, “You want to love me, you want to hug me, you want to—”

Carisi took a step closer, eliminating the space between them, and Barba broke off, looking up at him, his grin fading, just slightly. Carisi leaned in until their lips were almost touching and Barba’s mouth opened, just slightly. “Good luck tonight,” Carisi whispered before taking a step back and allowing himself a smirk of his own. “See you later, Counselor.”

He left before Barba could reply and made it all the way to the lobby of the hotel before he finally let out the breath he had barely even realized he’d been holding. He let out a soft chuckle and shook his head before heading out to the surveillance van and letting himself in. “Hey,” he told Fin, sitting down next to him. “Mic all up and working?”

“Yeah,” Fin said, glancing sideways at him, an all-too-knowing smile on his face. “You know the mic was on the whole time, right?”

Carisi had known that.

But he had also, apparently, forgotten it, and he felt himself blush again. “Shut up,” he muttered.

Fin’s grin widened. “You ever gonna tell Barba that you do think he’s gorgeous and you do want to kiss him?”

“What part of shut up do you not understand?”

Fin just laughed in response.

Four hours later, neither of them were laughing, mostly because both of them were bored out of their minds. Pretty much every conversation Barba had had that night were innocuous, routine and insipid. Barba was clearly feeling the frustration as well, as he muttered into the microphone, “If I have to have one more conversation about skin care regimes, I’m going to bomb this thing myself.”

Fin sighed and clicked the mute button, glancing over at Carisi. “We should call it a night,” he said, tugging his headphones off. “Barba’s not finding anything we didn’t already know.”

“All the more reason he should keep going,” Carisi argued. “The pageant is tomorrow night, and if we don’t have anything to go on—”

“Joint-Terrorism’s upped the police presence at the pageant,” Fin reminded him. “Every entrance is being monitored with unis and K9s, the ballroom has been swept by the bomb squad and will be swept again beforehand. And personally, my ass is asleep and I’d rather not sit in this car for a minute longer than I have to.”

Carisi shook his head, about to argue more when Barba sighed and said into the microphone, “I’m calling it a night. This is beyond pointless and besides, if I’m going to be forced to participate in this charade tomorrow, I need my sleep.”

Fin gave Carisi a look. “Told you so,” he said, somewhat smugly, and Carisi rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he snapped, reaching forward to unmute to tell Barba, “Fine, call it a night. Let us know—”

He was cut off by the sound of a knock on what he could only assume was Barba’s hotel room door. “Hang on,” Barba muttered, and Fin and Carisi exchanged glances. They heard Barba open the door and then— “Jimmy?” Barba asked, concern clear in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” they heard a familiar Staten Island accent say. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but — can we talk?”

“Of course,” Barba said. “Come in.”

“Keep him talking,” Carisi urged Barba. “Especially if this is about—”

The microphone went dead. “Barba?” Carisi said worriedly. “Barba?”

“He turned off the receiver,” Fin told him.

Carisi stared at him. “What? Why?”

Fin shrugged, suddenly not able to look Carisi in the eye. “Because he doesn’t want us to hear whatever happens next.”

“And what do you—” Carisi broke off, understanding dawning. “No. No, you don’t think—”

Fin held up his hands defensively. “I don’t think anything. All I know is that Mr. Staten Island was flirting with Barba the other day and now he’s in his hotel room, and Barba turned the mic off. Those are the facts. And that’s all I know.”

Carisi yanked his headphones off. “You’re wrong,” he told Fin, his voice low.

“Maybe,” Fin said. “At least, I hope I am.” He paused, waiting for Carisi to say something else, then shook his head. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to the precinct. We got a long day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Carisi said hollowly. “A long day.”

He had a long night ahead of him as well.

* * *

 

“You look exhausted,” Barba said, sounding a little concerned as they made their way into the backstage area at the hotel, where the contestants for Mr. Manhattan were getting ready.

“I’m fine,” Carisi said shortly.

He hadn't slept at all the night before, but he didn't see the need to tell Barba that.

“Which is why you’ve said about two words to me this entire morning.”

Carisi drained his cup of coffee and threw the empty cup into the trash can with more force than was necessary. “I’m on the job, so I’m trying to keep small talk to a minimum.”

“Small talk?” Barba repeated, incredulous. “Carisi, what—”

Before he could finish his question, Carisi’s phone rang, and he answered it without looking. “Carisi.”

“Detective, I need you to bring Barba and meet me outside of the hotel.”

Carisi frowned. “Lieu?” he asked, and Barba glanced up at him, startled. “What’s—”

“I’ll explain when you get out here,” Olivia said shortly, hanging up before Carisi could even respond.

He looked back at Barba, who raised a questioning eyebrow. “Come on,” Carisi said gruffly. “We’re needed outside.”

Together they made their way out of the hotel, meeting up with Olivia, who was flanked by two men, one of whom both Barba and Carisi recognized. “Mr. Mayor,” Barba said in greeting, his shoulders tensing, just slightly.

“Mr. Barba,” the mayor said, his smile brittle. “Do you know Chief Fitzgerald?”

Barba shook his head but Carisi’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. “Chief Fitzgerald,” he said, holding his hand out for the chief to shake. “Head of NYPD Counterterrorism.”

“That’s right, Detective,” the chief said, shaking his hand briefly. “And I come bearing good news: the op is off.”

“The — what?” Barba asked sharply.

“JTTF arrested a suspect this morning,” Fitzgerald reported. “A disgruntled former employee of the mayor’s office. He had access to some components of common bombs, and had some other red flags that fit the usual suspect profile.”

Barba’s expression flickered. “Red flags?” he asked.

The chief and the mayor exchanged glances, and Olivia cleared her throat. “The suspect is Muslim,” she said, her own disapproval over the situation clear in her voice and her expression. 

“No one on the mayor’s political staff mentioned any disgruntled former employees,” Carisi said, glancing between Olivia and the mayor.

“The individual in question wasn’t on my political staff, Detective,” the mayor said smoothly. “He worked for me at City Hall. Now if you’ll excuse me, since my fundraiser is no longer in danger, I have a pageant to go oversee.” He nodded curtly at Barba. “Mr. Barba, I’ll see you for Mr. New York once Mr. Manhattan is crowned.”

He strode into the hotel and Barba glared at Fitzgerald. “You arrested someone just because he’s Muslim?”

Fitzgerald scowled. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Counselor. JTTF made an arrest based on a profile we put together.”

“A profile that apparently doesn’t contain all the facts!” Barba snapped. “The Mr. New York pageant isn’t staffed by the Mayor’s City Hall staff, it’s staffed by his political committee. And did you know that some of the higher ups on the mayor's political staff has been encouraging him to stop hosting the pageant? Besides which, the most recent letter had female DNA—”

“Maybe he got his girlfriend to lick the envelope,” Fitzgerald said impatiently. “I’ve been working counterterrorism since 9/11 and I know what I’m looking for.”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

Barba delivered the words like a challenge, and Fitzgerald just shook his head. “I’m not,” he said shortly. “And NYPD doesn’t have the funds or manpower to stick with this on the off chance that every red flag we’ve found is wrong.”

Barba glanced at Olivia, who just shook her head. “It’s out of my hands,” she said quietly. “This isn’t SVU’s case.”

“So you’re just going to let the bomber go through with their plan?” Barba asked, his lip curling, before turning to Carisi. “Are you just going to let them do this?”

“I’m gonna do my job,” Carisi said, his voice low. “And part of my job is following orders.”

Barba flinched away from him, his expression darkening, but Fitzgerald clapped Carisi on the shoulder. “Good man,” he said, before turning back to Olivia. “Lt. Benson, walk with me — we need to discuss handoff of operation shutdown.”

Olivia nodded, giving Carisi a quick look before following Fitzgerald. Barba glared at Carisi, who glared right back at him. “Really?” Barba snapped. “Part of your job is following orders? That’s all you had to say?”

“What else did you want me to say?” Carisi snapped. “You may not give a shit about pissing the mayor and NYPD brass off, but I don’t have that luxury.”

“So you care more about your career prospects than an innocent man being arrested for the sole crime of being Muslim?” Barba shot back. “I know you’re a cop, Carisi, but I didn’t think you were that kind of cop.”

“You think this is about my career prospects? This is about the fact that you seem to expect that I will jump when you say jump, no matter what damage it does.”

Barba glared at him. “I don’t expect that,” he said coldly. “But what I do expect is that you do your job as a detective and figure out who is actually behind this, because you and I both know—”

“No, we don’t know!” Carisi half-shouted, his frustration and hurt getting the better of him. “We know nothing! The perp being a member of mayor’s political staff is speculation at best, and not enough to tell the chief of counterterrorism that he’s wrong. And the reason why it’s not enough is because for all that you have bitched and moaned about having to go through this, you’ve found nothing, no leads, nothing else to go on.”

Barba recoiled. “Because  _ I _ found nothing?” he repeated. “I didn’t realize it was my responsibility to be lead investigator on top of everything else I’ve had to do—”

“Oh yeah, you’ve had it real hard, putting on a designer tux and showing off for an audience,” Carisi spat sarcastically. “All I’m saying is we did our job. And maybe if you spent a bit more time helping us instead of sleeping with a potential suspect—”

“What?” Barba said blankly, but Carisi just shook his head.

“You know what? I’m done.” He backed away from Barba, still glaring at him. “Break a leg tonight, Counselor.”

He turned to walk away. “Carisi,” Barba said softly, but when Carisi didn’t pause, he called after him, “Sonny, wait—”

But Carisi didn’t wait.

He walked away.

From Barba, from the Mr. New York pageant, from everything.

Because he was done.

He just wished that every instinct in his body wasn’t screaming for him to turn around and go back.


	5. Chapter 5

Carisi made it all of a half a block away from the hotel before his phone rang, and he answered it with a gruff, “Yeah?”

“That how you answering your phone now?” Fin asked, amused.

“Sorry, Sarge,” Carisi muttered, though he wasn’t feeling particularly sorry.

“I’ll take it you heard about JTTF?”

Carisi gritted his teeth. “Yeah. The chief said Joint-Terrorism apprehended the guy and are pulling the op. I’m on my way back to the precinct. No reason to keep hanging out down here.”

Fin snorted. “Yeah, ok,” he said. “I’ll make a note that you’re on the way back to the precinct. Got it.”

“What’re you talking about?” Carisi asked, slowing slightly, confusion wrinkling his brow.

“C’mon, Carisi, you and I both know you’re not going anywhere while there’s still a bomber that could take out Barba,” Fin said with a chuckle. “I don’t care what you heard — or thought you heard — last night. But if you need me to cover for you here, I’ll cover for you. I get it.”

“So you think JTTF arrested the wrong guy?” Carisi asked, his heart beating painfully in his chest.

“Nah, I think that arresting someone solely based on being Muslim and brown is totally justifiable,” Fin said dryly.

Carisi cracked a smile. “Funny,” he said, turning back toward the hotel. “Barba said the same thing.”

“Course he did,” Fin scoffed. “Barba’s a smart dude. And he normally has a good reason for doing the things he does.”

“Even turning off the receiver for the mic in his hotel room?” Carisi asked.

“You tell me,” Fin said calmly.

Carisi nodded slowly, even though he knew Fin couldn’t see him. “So if I stay here at the pageant, you’ll cover for me?”

“Why would I need to cover for you?” Fin asked, though Carisi could hear the smile in his voice. “After all, you’re on your way back to the precinct.”

For the first time in what felt like all day, Carisi managed a smile. “Thanks, Sarge,” he said.

He was about to hang up when Fin added, with a forced casualness, “By the way, just to give you something to think about as you head back to the precinct, I’ve been doing some digging into the mayor’s political staff. That’ll stop now that they’ve arrested a suspect by my sources say that the main person pushing the mayor to drop the pageant is his wife.”

“Ok,” Carisi said, not sure what to do with that information. “I’ll, uh, I’ll take that under advisement, I guess.” With that, he hung up, shoving his phone in his pocket before double-timing it back to the hotel.

But he was too late.

“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t let you in without a ticket,” the far-too chipper door attendant told him, and Carisi gritted his teeth. 

“I was literally just here,” he said, for the third time. “I left my — my partner backstage and stepped outside to take a phone call, and now I need to get back in there.”

“I understand, sir, but the Mr. Manhattan contest is finishing up and I’m afraid I can’t let anyone in without a ticket.”

Carisi sighed and just barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Look, I’m an NYPD detective,” he snapped, pulling his badge out of his pocket and showing it to her. “Either let me in or explain to the Mayor of New York City why you refused to let one of New York’s Finest in.”

He didn’t wait for the door attendant to respond, just brushing past her and banking on the fact that she wouldn’t actually try to stop him.

And luckily for him, she didn’t.

The person manning the door to the backstage, however, did.

“I’m sorry, sir, but unless you’re a contestant, I can’t allow you back here,” the man said firmly.

“And that fact that I’m an NYPD detective isn’t enough?” Carisi asked, somewhat desperately.

The man just crossed his admittedly impressively-muscled arms in front of his chest. “No.”

“Tony, it’s ok,” a Staten Island-accented voice said, and Carisi peered around the man to blink somewhat incredulously at Jimmy Callahan, who gave him a somewhat sheepish grin. “He’s with me.”

“Oh,” Tony said, giving Carisi a knowing look. “Ok.”

Carisi felt himself flush. “Not like that,” he started, but before he could explain further, Jimmy grabbed his arm and pulled him backstage.

“Listen, I’m really glad I caught you,” he started, somewhat earnestly, and Carisi glanced sideways at him as they made their way through the backstage. “I just...I know that you and Rafael are together, and, uh, I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea about, uh, last night. I just needed someone to talk to and Rafael was so nice to me, y’know?”

Carisi nodded slowly, because he did know. If he was being honest with himself, he had known all along, if he had just set his stubbornness and pride aside for half a minute.

Apparently, self-awareness came easily to him backstage at a beauty pageant.

“Anyway, uh, I’ll go get Rafael for you,” Jimmy finished, looking at Carisi nervously, and he realized a moment too late that he probably should’ve said something.

Well, too late now.

Besides, any thought of what he should’ve said flew out of his mind as soon as he saw Barba trailing after Jimmy, looking resplendent in a tailored tux, a bemused expression on his face. A bemused expression that disappeared as soon as he saw Carisi. “Oh,” he said dully, and Jimmy glanced between them.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to it.”

Barba’s expression didn’t change as Jimmy made himself scarce, just staring at Carisi with the same flinty look on his face. “What are you doing here?” he asked, and Carisi winced.

“I think you might’ve been right,” he admitted, and Barba’s expression flickered slightly. “We both know that the guy from the mayor’s office had nothing to do with this, and sources close to the pageant—”

“Sources close to the pageant?” Barba repeated skeptically.

Carisi nodded. “Yeah, uh, Fin’s been doing some digging,” he said, hoping Barba wouldn’t ask any more questions, mainly because he didn’t have any further answers. Thankfully, Barba didn’t, just arching an eyebrow at him as he waited for him to go on. “Anyway, uh, sources close to the pageant say that the mayor’s wife has been the one pushing him to drop it, even though he refuses to give it up.”

“So what?”

Barba didn’t sound skeptical this time; he just sounded tired, and Carisi winced. “So…” He shrugged. “So I dunno. I just think there’s more going on here than meets the eye. And honestly, I think this whole thing is more personal than we thought.” He took a deep breath before telling Barba what conclusion he’d finally reached on his walk back to the hotel. “I don’t think the target of those threats is the pageant. I think the target is the mayor.”

For a moment, Barba just stared at him, but then he shook his head, his expression tightening. “Well thank you for sharing that insight, Detective,” he said dryly, “but I’m not an investigator and with JTTF pulling the op, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it right now.”

“You may not be an investigator, but I am,” Carisi told him, his voice low. “I’m not going anywhere until I figure this out. And—” He threw caution to the wind. “I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure you’re safe.”

Barba’s expression softened, just slightly. “That would almost be touching,” he started, before adding, his tone turning wry, “if you hadn’t just accused me of sleeping with a near stranger last night, anyway.”

Carisi felt himself flush. “I know you didn’t sleep with Jimmy,” he mumbled, not quite meeting Barba’s eye. “He told me you didn’t.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Barba glared at him. “So you’ll take his word for it but not mine?” he spat, and Carisi shook his head.

“C’mon, it’s not like that—” he started, but Barba cut him off.

“No, Detective it’s exactly like that. You should just—”

Whatever he was about to suggest that Carisi do, likely to himself, he was cut off by one of the pageant staffers, who tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Barba, you’re up next.”

Barba didn’t look away from Carisi even as he gave the staffer a curt nod. “Just go, Sonny,” he said dismissively before turning to follow the staffer toward the stage.

For lack of anything better to do, Carisi trailed after him, hoping that he could explain further, but before he could even say anything, a different staffer approached Barba, looking almost terrified. “Mr. Barba, I’m afraid there’s a problem,” she said, and both Barba and Carisi looked at her. 

“Yes, I’m well aware,” Barba said, throwing a nasty look at Carisi, “and I’d really like if security could come—”

“We lost your backing tapes.” Barba stared at her and the staffer clarified, “For your performance.” When Barba didn’t say anything, she suggested in what she clearly thought was a helpful way, “You could perform acapella?”

“Maybe ten years ago I could, but now…” Barba shook his head, his eyes wide, almost panicked. He looked at Carisi, who shrugged, helpless for anything to suggest, and suddenly, without warning, Barba smiled. “But now I have a better idea.”

Carisi suddenly felt something like fear licking up his spine, though he didn’t have any reason for it. Still, he watched warily as Barba swaggered onto the stage to the announcer telling the audience, “And now, the musical stylings of Mr. Bronx, Rafael Barba.”

“Good evening,” Barba said into the microphone, flashing a smile at the audience, and Carisi’s traitorous heart gave a little leap at the sight. “I know the program says that I am supposed to be singing for you this evening, but unfortunately, due to the lengthy journey between The Bronx and Manhattan—” The audience tittered appreciatively. “—that will no longer be possible. Thankfully, I believe in having backup, both in terms of backup plans and—” He glanced over at where Carisi lingered in the wings of the stage. “—and someone to watch your back. And I also believe that everyone should be equipped with the basic tools to watch their own back when someone isn’t there to do it for you.”

He paused, a slow smirk crossing his face, and Carisi again felt a flicker of dread go through him. “In order to demonstrate this, I’m going to need a little help, so I would like to bring out my assistant, one of New York’s Finest, Det. Sonny Carisi.”

He turned to look at Carisi, even applauding politely along with the audience, and Carisi had no choice but to walk out onstage, squinting against the bright lights. Barba smirked at him before turning his smile back on the audience. “I am going to show you how to attack Sonny’s sensitive areas to inflict maximum damage using the least amount of force,” he told the audience, and Carisi was pretty sure he had never heard Barba sound so...gleeful. Especially not at the thought of inflicting bodily harm. Especially on him. “Moves, in other words, that even an aging queen who traded in the South Bronx for the Upper East Side can pull off.”

Barba looked expectantly at Carisi, who privately thought that attacking Barba was going to be pretty easy at this point. “In some cases,” Barba said, not looking away from him, “your attacker may come at you in a frontal assault.” He gestured at Carisi, goading him into attacking, and Carisi didn’t hesitate, rushing toward him. Barba waited for Carisi to get within arm’s reach before slamming the heel of his palm directly into Carisi’s nose.

Carisi wheeled backward, reaching up automatically to clutch his nose.

It was not the first time his nose had been broken but it still hurt like a motherfucker, and he barely heard Barba tell the audience, unbearably smug, “Use the heel of your hand and thrust it upward. This will cause the nose to break and your assailant’s eyes to tear, giving you a chance to get away.”

The audience actually  _ applauded _ that, and if Carisi had ever been tempted to move back to Staten Island, it was nothing compared to now. Now, he half-wished a hurricane would destroy the entire island of Manhattan and swallow all of its inhabitants, especially those sitting in this room.

“Now, let’s say your attacker comes at you from behind,” Barba continued, and Carisi let go of his nose to glare at Barba, who glared right back at him, clearly expecting him to pretend to attack him.

But Carisi knew better this time, and he stayed stubbornly where he was.

Or at least, he did until Barba turned back to the audience and told them in a sing-song voice, “Aw, widdle Sonny looks a widdle scared.” The audience laughed at that and Carisi felt his face burn. “Maybe he needs a widdle bit of applause?”

Again the audience applauded, this time punctuated with more laughter and even a few wolf-whistles and Carisi gritted his teeth before charging Barba from behind.

This time, Barba grabbed him by the arm and, with a shout, tossed him onto the ground. Carisi groaned painfully, staring up at Barba, who was grinning.

God, Carisi was really beginning to regret teaching Barba self-defense back during the death threats against him.

Truthfully, as he picked himself up off the ground, Carisi was also beginning to regret catching those responsible for threatening Barba’s life.

“Now if all else fails,” Barba continued blithely as if he hadn’t just broken Carisi’s nose or possibly broken his back, “I want you to remember what I was supposed to do here tonight — SING. S-I-N-G. The four sensitive areas of the body.” Carisi knew it was coming but still he stepped toward Barba, screwing up his eyes in preemptive protest as Barba punctuated each area of the body with a swift — and not even remotely gentle — hit. “Solar plexus—” He jammed his elbow into Carisi’s gut. “Instep—” He stomped down on Carisi’s foot. “Nose—” Again he hit Sonny in the face which, honestly, at this point, was just cruel. “Groin.”

His elbow to Carisi’s crotch knocked all the air out of his lungs, and he almost keeled over, letting out a whimper that under different circumstances he would probably be embarrassed by.

“Wow,” the announcer said over the audience’s raucous applause. “Welcome to the South Bronx.”

Barba clapped a hand on Carisi’s shoulder, steering him backstage, and Carisi glared at him, still half doubled over from pain. “Was that entirely necessary?” he managed.

“Maybe not,” Barba said cheerfully. “But it sure as hell felt good.”

“Well, if you’re done feeling good,” Carisi muttered, gingerly prodding his nose and wincing as he did, “we need to figure out who else would have motive—”

“Rafael,” a warm voice interrupted, and both men turned to find the mayor positively beaming at them. “That was some incredible work out there.”

Barba’s smile disappeared in an instant. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” he said stiffly.

The mayor chuckled as he joined them. “You know, I never would have expected that you were hiding such strength under those tailored suits of yours.” He ran his hand down Barba’s arm, squeezing lightly, and Barba and Carisi exchanged startled glances. “And you, Detective — I can’t think of the last time I saw someone who looked so good getting their ass handed to them.” He grabbed Carisi’s butt and Carisi froze, letting out a squeak even as the mayor just chuckled. “Now if you boys will excuse me, I need to go wish Jimmy — I mean, Mr. Staten Island — luck.”

He wandered toward the stage and Carisi gaped at Barba, horror and shame mixing in his chest. “Did — did that just happen?” he managed, because he needed someone else to confirm it for him, to tell him that the mayor of New York City had just sexually assaulted an NYPD detective with the Special Victims Unit.

But Barba was staring after the mayor, something almost contemplative in his expression. “Yeah,” he said vaguely.

“Raf, the mayor just grabbed my ass.”

Barba nodded. “Mmhmm, he sure did.”

“Raf—”

Barba turned back to him, determination written across his face. “Sonny, I think I know what’s going on.”

Carisi glared at the mayor’s back. “Yeah, what’s going on is the mayor of New York is apparently a perv—”

“Sonny,” Barba interrupted, and Carisi switched his glare to him. “The mayor of New York just openly hit on two men. And last night, when Jimmy came to my room—”

Carisi shook his head. “Look, you don’t have to explain, I trust you—”

Barba shook his head. “No, it’s not about that,” he said impatiently. “Jimmy came to tell me something because he was upset. He wouldn’t give me any details but he said he’s been having an affair with a married, closeted and very powerful man. And that he thinks things are going to end after the pageant. I didn’t put it together, but what if he’s having an affair with the mayor?” Carisi just stared at him and Barba added insistently, “And what if he’d not the first contestant to have an affair with the mayor?”

“Raf, don’t you think that’s a little far-fetched?” Carisi asked skeptically, but Barba shook his head.

“What was it the letters said?”

“That they wanted to blow up all the fags and queers—” Carisi broke off, staring at Barba. “Oh, God, you don’t think—”

“You were the one who thought the mayor might be the target,” Barba said, his voice low. “And who’s been pushing the mayor to drop the pageant? Who has the most to lose by his various affairs?”

Carisi closed his eyes. “His wife.”

Barba nodded. “Exactly,” he said grimly. “Which means we need to find her—”

“She’s not here,” Carisi said, something clicking in the back of his mind. “I heard someone from JTTF say earlier that she’d been cleared to be at the pageant but that she’d already left.”

“Ok, then think,” Barba said urgently. “If you wanted to blow up the mayor specifically during this pageant, how would you do it?”

Carisi shook his head. “Uh, I dunno, he’s been backstage most of the time. Maybe in an office or—”

“Oh, God,” Barba said, all blood draining from his face. “Sonny. The crown.” Carisi looked at him, confused, and Barba gestured vaguely at his head. “The mayor crowns Mr. New York at the end. The bomb has to be in the crown.”

“Are you sure?”

Barba gave him a look. “Of course I’m not sure,” he snapped. “But what else do we have to go on?” Carisi didn’t reply and Barba took a deep breath. “Do you trust me?”

“More than anything.”

Carisi didn’t hesitate before saying it, and Barba almost smiled at that. “Then we have to find that crown.”

Nodding, Carisi glanced around the backstage area. “Ok,” he said decisively. “I’ll take stage right, you take stage left—”

“I can’t.”

Carisi’s brow furrowed. “Raf—”

Barba huffed a sigh. “I have to get ready for the formalwear portion of the evening,” he muttered.

Carisi almost made a joke at that, but thought better of it. “Then I’ll look backstage,” he said instead, “and you keep an eye out for the crown in the dressing area.”

“Ok,” Barba said simply, looking up at him, and Carisi nodded, just once, before turning to scope the rest of the backstage. “And Sonny—” Carisi paused, glancing back at him. “Thanks for coming back.

Carisi half-smiled. “You in a tux? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Barba rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Oh, and Raf? Be safe.”

Barba’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You too.”

* * *

 

For as much as Carisi would’ve loved to see Barba in a tux, skulking backstage during the formalwear portion didn’t exactly lend itself to it. When Barba rushed offstage afterwards, dressed in a beautiful, classic tux, Carisi actually forgot why he was there and what he was supposed to be doing.

At least, he forgot until Barba grabbed him by the arm and asked urgently, “Did you find it?”

“No, no trace of it,” he said. “And the crowning ceremony is the only thing left.” Barba swallowed and nodded, slowly. “Raf, what are you gonna do?”

Barba squared his shoulders. “Whatever I have to do.”

For the second time that day, Carisi felt fear spike down his spine, but this time, it wasn’t for himself. “Raf—” he choked out, and Barba glanced up at him.

“I know,” he said quietly, but Carisi shook his head.

“No, Raf, I wanna say it,” he told him firmly. “I have to. Look, what you said last night, at your hotel room — about me wanting to, uh, to hug you and kiss you and that I think you’re gorgeous—”

He was cut off by a staffer appearing at Barba’s shoulder, and Carisi swore under his breath. “Mr. Bronx, we need you now,” the staffer said urgently, and Barba gave Carisi a half-smile.

“We’ll continue this later, I guess,” he said, and Carisi shook his head.

“There better be a later,” he growled, and Barba laughed lightly, before leaning in and kissing Carisi lightly.

“For luck,” he said simply.

Carisi couldn’t seem to find his voice to say anything, but it didn’t matter because Barba was already walking onstage as the announcer told the audience, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have been waiting for — your 2018 Mr. New York All-Borough finalists!”

The audience applauded and cheered and Carisi lingered in the wings, watching Barba as he joined his fellow four contestants. “Your fourth runner-up,” the announcer started, pausing dramatically before finishing, “Mr. Queens!”

As soon as Mr. Queens stepped forward, Carisi saw it — the crown. It was already onstage, held by a staffer waiting next to the mayor and Carisi knew that it was too late to grab it or do anything with it.

“Your third runner-up...Mr. Brooklyn!”

But Carisi also knew that for an explosive device to be small enough to hide on that crown, there had to be a detonator nearby, and so he scanned the stage, looking for someone, anyone—

“The second runner-up is...Mr. Manhattan!”

And then he saw her, the staffer he’d spoken to briefly back at the Mr. Bronx competition, crouching down behind a backdrop, something small clutched in her hand.

Carisi didn’t hesitate, unholstering his gun.

He was never going to get to her in time.

“The first runner up, who will have to take the winners’ place if for any reason he cannot fulfill his duties as Mr. New York is...Mr. Bronx! Which means our new Mr. New York is Mr. Staten Island, James Callahan Jr.!”

He saw Barba grab Jimmy, saw him pull him into a hug, but this time, Carisi didn’t feel a swoop of jealousy. He knew better this time. Truth be told, he had known better all along, and besides, he imagined Barba was probably warning him not take the crown. Sure enough, when Jimmy pulled away, he looked confused, and more than a little insulted.

The mayor approached Jimmy, crown in hand, and Carisi’s heart stopped. Even if he sprinted across the stage, he wouldn’t be able to get to the detonator, he wouldn’t be able to stop her—

Barba tackled Jimmy from behind, and all hell broke loose.

The other three contestants swarmed on Barba, clearly assuming that this stemmed from Barba being a poor loser and wanting the crown for himself. The mayor was laughing awkwardly, waiting for the scuffle to stop so that he could crown the winner, and Carisi took this as his opportunity to dart across the stage, pointing his gun at the staffer, who let out a whimper when she saw him. “NYPD,” Carisi told her. “Hand me the detonator.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she threw the detonator across the stage, which probably would have been safer for everyone involved had a woman not practically catapulted from the audience and grabbed the detonator.

It was the mayor’s wife, and Carisi shouted, “Raf, the crown!"

Barba grabbed the crown and threw it like a frisbee toward the catwalk above the stage.

The crown exploded with a BOOM and shrieks and screams echoed throughout the room. Carisi heaved a sigh of relief, not wavering in pointing his gun at the staffer, who had started to sob, raising her hands to cover her face. Security tackled the mayor’s wife with more force than was probably necessary, considering she couldn’t set the bomb off twice. Caris glanced over at Barba, who managed a small, shaky smile for him.

Barba was fine.

Everyone was safe.

And Carisi let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding since accidentally volunteering Barba for this whole thing in the first place.

* * *

 

Once he was cleared by IAB and JTTF, Carisi walked out of the hotel, reholstering his gun. He saw Barba, seated in the back of an ambulance, a shock blanket draped around his shoulders and a sour look on his face, and made a beeline for him. “Hey,” he said, and Barba looked at him and half-smiled.

“Hey.”

Carisi couldn’t quite stop his smile as he looked at him. “Good work out there tonight,” he said.

Barba cocked his head slightly. “You too,” he said, before adding, “So how does it feel, throwing the rule book out the window?”

“You say that like it’s the first time I’ve disobeyed direct orders,” Carisi said with a chuckle. “C’mon, you know me better than that — hell, you know SVU better than that.”

“Touché,” Barba said, laughing lightly. 

Carisi grinned, ducking his head before saying casually, “So, uh, I was thinking, after I, y’know, finish writing up the report and you trade that designer tux for a designer suit, I dunno, maybe we could go get dinner.”

Barba raised an eyebrow, a small smile on his face. “Are you asking me out on a date?” he asked.

“What? No,” Carisi said, the denial more instinct than anything. Then he paused. They had been through just everything that night, and for the weeks leading up to this moment, and if he had learned anything, it was that maybe it was time to stop denying things.

Especially this.

“Actually — yeah. Yes. I am. Asking you out.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across Barba’s face. “You think I’m gorgeous,” he told Carisi with just a hint of smugness, reaching out to draw Carisi in closer. “You want to date me, you want to—”

Carisi cut him off by kissing him.

He stepped in between Barba’s spread legs, crowding him against the ambulance and kissing him as if his life depended on it.

He was beginning to think that it was.

All too soon, they were interrupted by someone clearing his throat next to them, and they both turned to look at Jimmy Callahan, who was smiling at them, a little bemused, and rocking a pretty impressive black eye from where Barba had punched him during the scuffle. “Sorry to interrupt,” he told them. “I just, uh, I wanted to thank you. Both of you, I guess. For, uh, for saving my life.” He shook his head, his smile widening as he looked at Barba. “I know I won Mr. New York, but, uh, if I have any say in it, I’d say you’ve got this year’s Mr. Congeniality award all sewn up.”

“Mr. what now?” Barba said, staring at him, but Jimmy just laughed and gave both of them a quick hug before leaving. Barba looked back at Carisi. “Please tell me that’s a joke,” he said faintly. “I mean, he can’t possibly be serious.”

Carisi raised an eyebrow, unable to stop his smirk as he echoed Barba’s sing-song tone from earlier, “He thinks you're ni-ice, he thinks you’re sweet, he thinks you’re—”

Barba elbowed him in the stomach for the second time that day, and Carisi winced. “Shut up and kiss me,” Barba growled.

Carisi grinned. “Yes, sir,” he said solemnly, taking a step closer to him and ducking his head, adding just before he kissed him, “Can’t say no to Mr. Congeniality, after all.”

This time, he figured he probably deserved the elbow to his stomach.

But it was more than worth it for the kiss that followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, thanks to everyone who's joined in on the crackery along the way, especially AHF and STS, without whom this would not have been possible.


End file.
